


Danger in Blue

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [8]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She wasn’t laughing in the moment. In the moment, she burned right along with him. With the rise and fall of the words. The way he coaxed Joe and Vera from the page. The way he got completely caught up in the story. In bringing it to life. In telling it to her. Drawing her in and making her burn. Making her see what he was seeing. A love story.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danger in Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Eleventh TARDIS-verse story I wrote. Set after The Blue Butterfly (4 x 14). I played a bit with the timeline of the episode. This Time Out comes after Castle has read through the end of the diary, and so has Beckett, but before they solve the case. That night doesn't actually exist in the episode, but I hope you'll allow me my artistic license.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been following this series and being kind enough to give me feedback.

 

  


* * *

_Fate's heart quickened . . ._

It makes her laugh every time she thinks of it. Now, anyway. After the fact.

In the moment . . . well, that was more complicated. It usually is. More and more, it's complicated between them. Even without gumshoes and gangsters' molls and secret safes and his voice . . . _God, his_ voice . . .

She's always had a noir thing. Since she was a kid. She'd sneak out of bed and wedge herself between the wingback chair and the living room wall while her parents curled up on the couch with old favorites and pretended not to notice her.

None of the movies made any sense to her back then. The whole concept of Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer baffled her for years. It didn't help that she'd always fall asleep before the end. Hardly ever so much as stirred as her dad carried her off to bed.

 _Kiss Me Deadly, Double Indemnity . . ._ the plots would bleed together and she'd have these dreams. Not black and white, but silver. Solid men with hard edges; femme fatales in silhouette suits with liquid eyes and dark, dark lips. Street lamps and fog and danger. Dreams tipping over into nightmares.

But she loved them all just the same. She ate it all up. The rapid-fire dialogue, the glamour, the desperate love stories. She loved them all. Imagined herself ducking into alleyways, a beaded evening bag swinging from her arm, heavy with secrets and a pearl-handled pistol. Shadowy doorways, fiery kisses, and a last-ditch shot at redemption in the rain.

_Fate's heart quickened . . ._

It makes her laugh now, because . . . _Weak, Castle. Seriously weak_.

She wasn't laughing in the moment. In the moment, she burned right along with him. With the rise and fall of the words. The way he coaxed Joe and Vera from the page. The way he got completely caught up in the story. In bringing it to life. In telling it to her. Drawing her in and making her burn. Making her see what he was seeing.

A love story.

For once, she was the one watching him. Studying the play of shadows on his face. The intensity. She couldn't take her eyes off him. In the moment, she wasn't laughing.

She's got a noir thing, and so does he, and it shouldn't be surprising. It's not, really. But it makes her want . . . not anything new, exactly. There's nothing new about what she wants or what he wants.

It's not even that it's urgent. Not exactly, though the urgency comes and goes. Goes less and less these days. But it's not just urgency. It's not just the constant chorus of _soon, when, not yet, what if, why not?_ It's not that. Or not _just_ that _._

It's specific. That's what it is. It's particular. This particular thing that she'd drop in conversation if she were a different person. If she were closer to who she wants to be. If she were in the habit of telling stories about herself. Letting people see the pieces that make her up. Letting him see.

But she's not. Even with him, she's not in the habit. He knows her. No one knows her like he does. But he doesn't know _about_ her. Not much, anyway.

They haven't done the life story thing. It's too dangerous. Too close to a line that she's not ready to cross. But she wants to. She wants him to know about her. And she wants to know about him. She wants his stories and wants to give him hers. To hear them on his tongue. To have him tell them back to her.

And this is fun. This is perfect. He'll love this in particular. She does.

She's loved it since her mother told her about it. Showed her. Gave her another story of herself, their family, when she thought Kate was old enough for the realness of it. For the hard luck story behind the diamond bright smile up on the screen.

It's delicious. Adventure and heartbreak and fade to black. He'll love it, too. A Kate Beckett story, signed, sealed, and delivered, and she has this sudden need—an unshakable desire—to share it with him.

She can picture it. It's a moment she can imagine down to the last detail.

He'll hound her for hints that he doesn't really want. He'll wheedle and plead and try to trip her up for the sake of it. And she'll tell him to watch. _Watch, Castle. Pay attention._

She'll sit next to him in the dark. Brushing against him once in a while. Leaning in to tweak his ear. She'll tell him to watch. _Pay attention, Castle._

And he will. He does pay attention. She can picture the way he'll drink in the details. Sort them out and jump to a dozen ridiculous conclusions along the way.

It's the kind of thing he'll want to figure it out for himself, and she can picture it exactly. The way he'll sneak glances at her. The way he'll go quiet. Still and satisfied as it dawns on him. His delight when it does.

She loves that. The crease between his eyebrows and the way he huffs out a breath. Opens his mouth and snaps it shut again when he's close, but not quite there. When he discards an idea and then he's on to the next one. The way his face opens up when he gets it. When the story comes together in his mind.

It's half the reason she holds out on him when they're working. She never quite tells him everything, and he doesn't want her to. She loves that.

He'll tease her. Of course he'll tease her and she'll frown at him, but not really. She'll sulk and roll her eyes and he'll buzz around her, alight with questions and energy and hungry to know everything. He'll tease her.

She wants that, too. She misses that easy playfulness. It's been hard to come by lately, and she misses it. She wants that back for both of them.

She looks at her watch. It's early yet. Early for what she's thinking. For what she suddenly realizes is possible.

It's early enough to do this. To call in another favor. To get things together and make this happen. For a little while, anyway. For tonight, she can make this happen for them.

 _Fate's heart quickened._ It _is_ pretty poetic.

* * *

The record must have ended a while ago. The furry pop of the needle has been part of the background noise for some time. He thinks so at least. It feels familiar.

He's been lost in it all. Visions of her in blood red, his fingertips teasing along the stark silk horizontal. The seductive sweep of her collarbones. The landscape of her shoulder blades, a flat expanse of smooth skin, a sharp ridge pressing into his palm as she winds an arm around his neck. The lilt of her voice in his ear, humming softly along with the band. The perfect fit of her in his arms.

He's been lost for a while.

He closes the diary with a satisfied sigh. Enjoys the musty scent that wafts up from the pages. Enjoys the way it blends with the burn of scotch on his tongue.

It's fantastic. He thumbs the well-worn edge of the cover. Fans open the pages and loves the rasping music of the paper. They don't make them like this anymore.

He flips to the middle and traces his finger down the page. The texture tells a story all its own. The heavy indentation of the letters. The mirror image embossed on the reverse. He loves the weight of the ink on the page and the heavy yellow imprint of time overlaying the deep blue of the sharp, certain handwriting.

They don't make them like this anymore. The diary. The rough-edged, over-the-top language. The love story. Joe and Vera.

He wishes he'd known them. That he could've met Vera. Kissed her hand and searched the lines of her face for that certain something. The kind of beauty that's hard to come by nowadays.

Wishes he could have heard Joe's voice. Known the exact quality of words roughened by bourbon and hard living and a lifetime of disappointment before she came along. He wishes he could have had him down to the Old Haunt. Lined up drinks for the both of them and knocked them back. Begged for a story. For a dozen stories.

Most of all, he wishes the two of them had more time. Even though the ending makes the story. Even though it puts that stamp of the era on it. He knows that as a writer, but still.

Five days isn't nearly enough time for a love story like that.

 _I'd take it_. _I'd take five days._ The thought surprises him, but it's true. He realizes it's true.

He'd take five days if it meant loving her openly. Even if it meant peril and high-stakes, stolen moments. He'd take it if they could find a corner, a set of shadows to call their own for a minute or two at a time. If he could fold her to him and whisper that he loves her. If he could hear her whisper it back. He'd take it.

And he wishes they'd made it, Joe and Vera. Imagines them, old and wrinkled and still crazy in love. Fat grandchildren at their feet, hanging on Joe's every word as he tells the story. Vera swatting him on the shoulder for not watching his language. Trying to keep a grin under wraps. Giving it up as their eyes meet and he gives her a heated look. He wishes they'd made it.

He spins in his chair. Flips the record over and gently drops the needle again. Heart-melting strings and then the bright slice of brass rising above it all, a lone trumpet sinking low to twine in and out of the vocal line. A snatch of blue melody giving lie to the lyrics.

Castle leafs through the diary. Back to the beginning and starts over again. A third time. A fourth, really, if he counts the "good parts version" he ran through at the precinct.

Dangerous. That was dangerous with Kate so near. Far too near for it to be a good idea. To let those images—those possibilities—run rampant through his mind with her close enough to touch. With that certain something so nearby.

He hadn't been getting away with anything. Less than usual with his eyes drifting from the page to her profile. Picturing her. Picturing him. All of them against the backdrop of that glittering past.

He hadn't gotten away with any of it. Sneaking peeks only to find her turning to him just then. Like she could feel the weight of his gaze.

And maybe she could. Maybe she could feel it. The slow burn. The wash of heat through him. The breath leaving his body, Joe's body, the first time he sees Vera. The minute he falls for her and Castle falls right along with him. Maybe she feels it, too. Maybe she's falling.

He hopes so. Sometimes he even lets himself think so. He's not the only one sneaking peeks. He's not the only one getting caught. And some days she hardly even seems to care when he does catch her. Some days the corner of her mouth quirks up. Inviting. Challenging. Some days are more dangerous than others.

Today was dangerous. Today he wasn't the only one not getting away with anything.

There was something going on with her. Every once in a while, there she was, watching him. Her head tilting just that way. The way it does when she wants to tell him something. When she wants him to ask. To read her. To tease out the details.

There was something going on down in Dempsey's office. When he slipped and she caught him. Made a point of catching him. Called him out and let it fall there between them. It wasn't just about making him squirm, although that too.

That, too, come to think of it. She was making him squirm and that's something, too.

She hasn't been in the habit lately. Even when she catches him. Lately she's quiet about it. Careful. A soft smile as her lashes drop. She's pensive, regretful, uncertain, but mostly quiet.

But not today. Today there was something going on.

He wants to know all of a sudden. He wants her to own up to whatever it is and tell him why today is different. Why it's dangerous. He wants to ask her if she's falling, too. To tell her that he is. He's falling and he could use the company.

He waits for it to pass, as much as it ever does. It doesn't. Not much.

He turns his attention back to the diary, but it's their first kiss and that's not helping. They're stealing off to a shadowy stairwell and playing with fire and that's not helping.

The phone chimes on the desk next to him and it takes a minute to peel himself off the ceiling. Helping or not, he can't help getting lost in the story every single time.

He takes one breath, then two. Knocks back a slug of scotch before he can make himself turn it over. Before he can make himself look.

Three texts in a row. From her. All from her.

_Time out._

_One hour._

And then an address near her place. Just down the street. He looks at his watch. It's early. Even waiting an hour, it's early.

All he can think is _It's dangerous. It's dangerous._

He can't wait.

* * *

He's doing her a favor. Kate has to remind herself of that. He's doing her a favor and this all will be worth it.

But right now Grant is droning on. Running his fingers over the reel. Back and forth over the gunmetal of the case. Over its spokes and circumference. And Kate would like to put an end to that. She'd like to put an end to that and to let him know who, exactly, is in charge of this moment, however big a favor he's doing her.

When she thinks of him—of Castle—settling into the dark beside her, of the solidity of him. The way she can count on it. They way she'll rest her head against his shoulder and breathe in all of him. . . . Then she doesn't need to remind herself. She knows. She knows this is worth it.

But she'd forgotten how Grant likes to explain things. At length. How he likes to explain things that no one—least of all she—cares about.

He's doing her a favor and she can wait this out. She can smile and nod and pretend her mind isn't on something else. Someone else. She can do that, but it costs her and she has so little to give. Being around people. Keeping herself upright. Not withdrawing. It costs her. For a long while, she's had so little and she guards it fiercely.

Still. He's doing her a favor.

Grant runs her through the steps again. Feeding the film in. How long to let the projector's lamp warm up and cool down. They run through a stretch as practice and there she is.

Elsa. Just a background figure, but larger than life.

Kate sees her smile. Sees her stealing the scene. She's beautiful. So beautiful and Kate can't help the breath that snags against each and every one of her ribs. The smile spreading over her own face.

She turns to Grant because she needs to share it. Wants to share it. Not with him, but he'll do.

Except that Grant falters when she turns the smile on him.

And then there's the other thing. She'd certainly forgotten about that. It's easy to forget that.

It's easy to forget that Grant is . . . _interested._ In her. In his awkward, overbearing way, he's interested in her. And she wishes Castle were here already and that would be the end of that. Because people like Grant scatter when the two of them are breathing the same air.

The realization hits her right between the eyes and it's stupid. It's _so_ stupid that a moment like this is what it takes to lay that out before her. How long it's been like that. Obvious to the whole wide world.

And obvious to her, really. If she looks herself up and down, it's obvious. The person she's been and the person she's become and the person she will be when it's time. The person she'll be soon, she hopes. When she considers that, it's obvious.

It's never really mattered who else they've brought into this. Either one of them. As far as he and she and fate go, it doesn't matter. It's never mattered. Not really. Or it wouldn't if either one of them had had any courage at all to see how it is. The courage to own it and see what's obvious to the whole, wide world. And even when they haven't—when they haven't had the courage, when they've doubted it—it has never once mattered.

That's not new. She feels that. She feels it thumping against her her sternum. Rippling through blood and bone and sinew and yesterday and today and from now on. It's never mattered whoever else they bring into this.

She wishes he were there already. If he were she might tell him. Somehow she might drum up the courage to tell him that truth. That it doesn't matter who else they might bring to the table.

She just wishes he were here already.

But he's not, and she smiles anyway. Because there's Elsa

She smiles. Stays Grant's hand on the switch because she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten and she loves this part. Her first big line.

_You're an everyday thing, Jack. Men like you, you're an everyday thing, and she's once in a lifetime._

Kate mouths the line along with her. Feels an electric thrill when Elsa stubs out her cigarette and turns her back on the leading man.

Grant is droning on again. Some technical point about the lighting that indicates the year and the second-rate studio, but Kate is turning her back on him. Thanking him for his help. For the favor. But she's turning her back on him, because it's time.

It's time.

_Fate's heart quickened . . ._

* * *

It's the longest hour of his life. Not even an hour. A little more than half an hour because he convinces himself that the 10-minute trip might somehow take him 20 or more at midnight.

And of course he's early. Way early and this is a new rule. She's never specified the time before and even though this thing between between them doesn't feel as fragile as it used to—it doesn't feel as fragile as it was even just a little while ago—he thinks he has to abide by it.

So he waits. He lingers in the doorway across the street. Thinks he should have a cigarette for the visual effect. Wishes he had a flask against the cold.

Usually he's good at this. Waiting. However much she teases him about not being able to sit still, he's good at waiting. It's just that she's more interesting than anything. He smiles to himself at that. At the thought that it's _her_ fault, really.

Because she's more interesting than anything else in the world. The way she moves. Her moods. How easily annoyed she is, but also how easily she laughs sometimes. How eager she is to laugh. The little details she lets slip when she thinks he's not listening. He's always listening.

But he's usually good at waiting. When he's alone on a New York street a night, he's good at waiting. He works. Drinks in the details and files them away for a setting, a character, a sequence of events.

Tonight, this is the longest hour of his life. Tonight he has Vera and Joe on his mind and it's dangerous and the world as it is feels all wrong. The mundane thump of bass turned way up. The squeal and hiss of the bus door. The passengers in jeans and parkas and polar fleece spilling out. It all feels wrong.

There should be silver-shot silhouettes. Square-jawed men and hourglass dames hanging on their arms. There should be sinister clouds of steam billowing up from street grates, a femme fatale appearing suddenly in a gritty pool of streetlight, a picture hat dipping low over one eye. Seamed stockings and cigarette holders and double-breasted suits. There should be all of that.

He gets lost again. Lost in the way the moment should be and time passes. Time passes and then something brings him back to himself. Brings him to the moment and the way it is. It's dangerous all over again.

And it's pretty spectacular. Because she's stepping across the street. Her shadow climbs the wall next to him. She's coming right for him and all he can see is the a-line of her trench coat, the slash of bronze light falling across her lips and he wonders where the rest of the world went, because there's nothing wrong now.

She stops in front of him, one hand on her hip, and tips her head back. Looks him up and down like she's not impressed.

"Looking for someone, tough guy?" It's exactly how he hears Vera's voice in his head. Down to the bite of the _T_ , the heart-shaped promise of the double _O_.

"Beautiful dame with a taste for trouble, but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sweetheart?"

She laughs then. It breaks the moment, but it's still dangerous and there's nothing wrong in the world.

She races right up to him, then, and tugs him by the elbow. "Come on, Castle. I can't wait to show you."

 _Dangerous,_ he thinks. _Dangerous._

And there's not a thing wrong in the world.

* * *

He's absolutely gleeful when she presses a flask into his hand and tells him to stay put.

"You're a hell of a dame, Beckett."

She gives him a look for that. It's required. She gives him a look and leaves him settled in one of the oversized seats and heads back to the little booth. She feeds the end of the film in, checks the gate and flips the switch. She waits for the steady clack that means the sprockets have caught and all is well.

And then she's sliding into the seat next to him and she can hardly believe it. Can hardly believe he's here. They're here together like this and she's shushing him because it's still the credits and he's already nagging. Already trying to guess. Sulking when she snatches the flask back from him and begging for hints. She loves it.

She loves it more when he gets caught up in it. When he can't help himself and she can watch undisturbed. Him and the screen. She can watch, because he's transfixed. He's running his tongue over his teeth, savoring the dialogue. Snorting when it's particularly over the top. Eyeing up the actors with grudging respect, because they're pulling it off. Cheap sets and iffy locations and all, they're pulling it off. They're selling it.

And then she can't watch him, because it's coming up. Elsa is coming up and she's suddenly nervous. Suddenly worries that he won't notice. That he won't get it. She slouches lower in her seat and chews on her nail.

He goes still. At exactly the right moment, his mouth drops open and he goes still. When his breath starts up again, he leans forward and his face tips half into the glow of the screen.

His eyes dart toward her and back to the screen. Half a dozen times he does it. She can see him swallowing. His mouth works soundlessly and she can feel the excitement crackling through him. Crackling through her and lighting her up, but she keeps her eyes on the screen. It's the only thing that seems safe.

But it's not safe. Of course it's not safe. It's finally too much for him and he leans in toward her. All of a sudden. All of a sudden he's _so_ close and her heart is pounding.

"Beckett," he breathes it against her cheek and her heart is pounding.

She turns to face him because it's the only thing she can do. The only thing in the world she can do.

He raises a hand to her face and she thinks he's going to kiss her. She's ready for him to kiss her and she's not. She's not ready for it with this as a backdrop. With this part of her life playing in the background. She wants him to kiss her and she's not ready for it. At all.

But he doesn't. He doesn't kiss her. Instead, he does something completely unexpected. The last thing in the world she would have expected.

He runs one fingertip down her nose. From bridge to tip and back again. Just one finger. He leans in closer. She wouldn't have thought it was possible, but he leans in closer and whispers, "Beckett. That's your nose up there. That's your _nose._ And I _will_ have questions."

And then he's gone. leaning back in his own chair with his arms folded smugly, eyes back on the screen.

* * *

The music swells and the flowing cursive proclaims  _The End._ He's sorry that its over. He never wants it to be over.

She lays her hand over his. "Give me just a second, Castle.

He flips his palm over and gives her fingers a squeeze. He nods silently and cranes his neck to watch her until she slips out of sight, into the projection booth.

He sighs. It's a gem. An absolute B-list gem with none of the empty gloss of latter-day noir. It's real. As real as something so suffused with melodrama can be. It's real and he wishes it weren't over.

And she—whoever she is—she's spectacular. Stole every scene and hit every beat just right. Just exactly right. He can't wait to hear the story. He can't wait.

He hears the door to the booth thunk closed and he's on his feet. She's struggling with the heavy canisters and he grabs one from her. "All finished?"

She nods. Doesn't quite meet his eyes and she's blushing. He thinks she's blushing.

"Can I take you for coffee?" He blurts it out because she's blushing and he's worried. He's suddenly worried that this is it. That she'll say her goodbyes in the street and that will be it.

"Gotta take these home," she says and, tapping the canister.

"Ok," he says it with something as close to a smile as he can manage at the moment. Probably not very close. He doesn't want it to be over. He never wants it to be over.

"You could come up," she blurts it out, too, and he feels a swell of gratitude. Gratitude and more. He grins and she grins back. She's blushing. "Help me wrestle these up the stairs and I'll make you coffee."

"Deal," he says as he gestures for her to lead the way. He waits until she's out of striking distance before he adds, "And you can answer my questions. Questions about your nose."

* * *

The coffee's brewing and he's at loose ends. He leans against the counter while she pads down the hallway and out of sight. He doesn't know what to do with himself. She took his coat and the coffee's brewing and he doesn't know what this means.

This is a new rule, too. He's been at her doorstep. He's kissed her there half a dozen times, but she doesn't invite him in. This is a new rule that she's making up right now and then she's reemerging in an oversized sweatshirt and soft-looking, loose pants and he really doesn't know what that means.

The slurp of the coffee maker has him jumping and she gives him a knowing smile. Makes him squirm again and he decides that he's missed that. He's definitely missed it.

"Can you get that?" She gestures at the coffee pot and quietly tells him where to find things.

He's grateful for it. For the few minutes to get his breath under control. To remember how things like hands and breathing and small talk work.

He makes up the mugs and turns back to her. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, an album spread open on her knees. She's engrossed. She's looking for something and chewing her lip. It's eluding her.

She's half in shadow, just a slant of soft light from the floor lamp across her forehead. It's striking. The resemblance is striking and he can't find words to tell her about it. To tell her that she makes his breath hitch and his heart stutter. To tell her she's spectacular.

But he can't find the words and he stands dumbly by with a mug in each hand.

He almost drops them the next minute, because she's found it. She's found whatever she's looking for and she tips her chin up and gives him this wicked, triumphant smile. He almost drops everything. He almost falls at her feet.

"Elsa," she says and she holds out her hand for the coffee.

He doesn't get it at first. He can't make sense of the sounds. He hands over the coffee and sinks down on to the couch by her left shoulder. Stalls for time.

"The nose!" It clicks into place and he says it again. "The nose is Elsa's! And yours."

He dips his head and peers over her shoulder. She's smiling. Small and pleased and quiet. It's important. This is important to her and she's sharing it with him. He wraps both hands around his coffee cup to keep them off her. To keep himself from sliding them over her shoulders and holding her close and thanking her for that.

There aren't many photos. Just a handful. A few pages in the big album. But he can see that that the film didn't do her justice. As gorgeous as it was—every frame—it didn't do her justice. She's alive in these pictures. Fire behind her eyes and a smile that dances.

There she is at Ciro's. It's a big group. Neither of them knows half of the people in the picture by name, but they both recognize them. They're drivers and maids and second henchmen and bailiffs. And then there are one or two they do recognize. Dick Powell and one of the Lawfords and neither of them can keep his eyes off her. Off Elsa. A dozen beautiful women and they only have eyes for her.

Castle can't blame them. She has it. That certain something. She has it in spades.

Kate turns the pages quietly. Points and nudges and laughs, but she's not saying much. He wants to tease her about her nose. About her beautiful nose, but something tells him it's not the time. That she wants to do this her way and it's not the time.

They linger on another photo. An overexposed daytime shot in front of a hotel he recognizes.

"The Biltmore," he says quietly and Kate nods.

"About a week . . ." She pauses and pulls the corner of the photo free. Checks the back. "No . . . not even a week before she died."

"She died." His voice sounds hollow. Bereft. He feels silly. Of course she died. People die and these have to be from the forties. But it bothers him. His chest feels tight and uncomfortable. It bothers him.

It bothers her, too. She just nods and keeps her face in shadow.

They're quiet for a while and then he can't help it. He has to ask. He has to ask and all he can do is hope she doesn't mind. Hope that he's reading this right and she wants to tell him but she doesn't know how to start. All he can do is hope that he can help. He has to ask.

He can hear her breath and she must be able to hear his. She must be able to hear it and given that, he's got nothing left to lose. He wants to know, badly, and she can hear his breath.

He drops a finger to the page. Right next to hers but not touching.

"Your grandmother's sister. Your mother's side. Johanna's side?"

She twists toward him. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is soft and not kissing her right then is the hardest thing he's ever done in his life. But it's not the right time. Not yet.

"The nose." He barely touches it with the tip of his finger and his hand falls away. "You have your mother's nose. She has Elsa's."

She smiles. Kate smiles and kisses him, then, and it's all worth it. Not kissing her a second ago is so worth it because she's kissing him. She's jerking him to her by a fistful of his shirt and it's a Hollywood kiss.

He slips to the floor and lands next to her. It's clumsy and he'll pay for it. He'll pay for it tomorrow, but he needs to have his arms around her. It's intense. Burning and ferocious and full of something. Grief, he thinks. Not first hand. Not hers or his or theirs, but grief.

They slow eventually. They slow and now it's his nose buried in her hair and her cheek pressed against his heart.

"Tell me about her," he whispers, his lips against her temple. His fingers toy with the ends of her hair. Winding and sliding free and she's quiet. She's quiet, but he thinks it's ok. He thinks they're doing this right.

"I didn't know her," she says. Hesitates. "I feel like I did. But even my mom didn't know her."

"Your grandmother?" He smooths her hair away from her cheek and just brushes a kiss over it. She's struggling and he wants to help her tell this story. He wants to tell it with her.

It seems to be right. She smiles and he thinks it must be right because it's a thousand watts of wicked. That's Elsa's, too, that particular smile.

"My grandmother _hated_ her."

"Ooh, that's a plus," he says with a grin. "Hate makes for the best stories."

"She . . . " Kate frowns, then goes on. "She was a good woman. My grandmother was a good woman."

"And she didn't think Elsa was." Castle nods.

"My great-grandparents weren't in good health and one of their brothers—my grandmother's and Elsa's too . . . He was hurt in the war. He was never the same. My grandmother had to put a lot of her own life on hold."

"And Elsa didn't. She packed a bag and turned her back on the family to follow her dreams." His voice is low and warm and picking up speed.

The keen edge of it thrills her. Makes her burn. He's putting the pieces together and she wants to kiss him again. She wonders if the story can wait because she wants so badly to kiss him.

He beats her to it. A soft, lingering kiss and then another. It's not how she would have kissed him right now, but it's probably for the best. This . . . this is more than she thought she had to give and it's dangerous enough. It's dangerous.

"The nose, Beckett," he prompts as he drops a kiss on hers and retreats for safer territory. "Tell me about the nose."

She laughs and kisses his back. Taps it with a ragged fingernail. "It's what got her discovered. That's what she said anyway."

She has a sudden thought and surges up. Her head connects with his and they both see stars for a second.

"Sorry, Castle." She kisses the sore spot. She's kneeling in front if him and she kisses his forehead. Kisses his lips once. "Sorry, but I just remembered."

She dashes off and leaves him laughing. Leaves him laughing and prodding gingerly at what will definitely be a bump.

She comes back with an envelope. Yellowed and fragile and smelling faintly of lavender. She drops back on the floor next to him and wiggles under his arm. Presses up against him and carefully extracts the paper inside.

He touches it gently. Rasps his finger over a corner and breathes, "They don't make them like this anymore."

"My grandmother never opened them. But she kept them. And my mother did. She found them after my grandmother died and she opened them. There were dozens of them. Every week at first. Every week for a while."

"And this is the story of the nose?" He leans in and she elbows him.

"Do not call it that!"

"It's not very noir," he admits. He nods at the paper. Urges her on.

She doesn't read it. She tells the story herself, and he loves that. He loves that she paints the picture of Elsa behind the counter at a See's Candies when a talent scout saw her in profile. He fell in love with her nose and whisked her away for a screen test and that was her first big break.

"Like _Sunset Boulevard_!" he says eagerly and she rolls her eyes.

"Exactly _un_ like _Sunset Boulevard._ Betty got her nose fixed and never caught a break."

"She met Joe," he argues.

"And _that_ worked out so well," she shoots back.

"Wouldn't you take it? A few days if you got to love someone like that? Even just for a few days . . . Wouldn't you take it?"

He's not looking at her. Not at first, but then he turns his head and finds her eyes and he wants to know. He really wants to know and she doesn't have an answer because that's not who she is. Not yet. She's not the kind of person who can answer that yet.

But he must see she's trying he must see how far she's come, because he dips his head and kisses her fiercely and she's burning. They're both burning.

"I would. I'd take it." He says it as he pulls away. Gives her a conspiratorial wink and a grin. Lightens things, but he means it. She knows he means it.

They're quiet a while. Comfortably tangled up together. He traces Elsa's handwriting. Comments on the texture. That people had way cooler handwriting back then. Way cooler everything. She laughs softly, plays along a little, but the grief is there. It's still there and the story isn't over.

He's just about to ask. The words are practically out of his mouth when she finds her voice. She grabs his fingers tight in hers and she finds her voice.

"It's the biggest break she got. _Danger in Blue_. She did a few other things. I've found a few. My mom found a few. And she's always . . ."

"Spectacular," he says low in her ear. "She was spectacular."

"She was." Kate smiles down at their hands. "She was. Every single time, she was. But things started to fall apart after that one. Lousy roles that she had to take to pay the bills. And then even those stopped coming."

She turns over a few pages of the album and there she is again. In newsprint this time. Her obituary. The accompanying picture is flat. A headshot, no doubt. It's flat and has none of her fire.

Castle tightens his arm around Kate's shoulder and kisses her hair.

"Carbon monoxide," she says finally. "It was cold that February. Cold for LA and she'd lost her place. Had to take a room in a boarding house. A paraffin heater and poor ventilation. That was their best guess."

"Sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, Kate."

She reaches up behind her and lays her hand along his cheek. Silently takes the comfort he's offering.

"No one made the funeral. No one from the family could make it all the way out to California. And they couldn't afford to bring her home."

There's something curious about her voice. It's solemn, but there's something else. There's a reveal. She still has something up her sleeve and his heart is broken for Elsa, but he can't wait. He can't wait.

After a minute, she turns the page. It's the last in the album and it's filled—absolutely filled—with newsprint. Dozens of inch-high columns about her funeral. About everyone who came to see and be seen. To see her off. There are dozens of them and it feels like something.

"Hell of a send off," he says. "I'm glad. I'm glad for her."

"Me too," she answers quietly. She draws in a shaky breath and leans against him. "Thanks, Castle. Thanks for listening."

She's half a minute away from crying and she doesn't want him to see. He knows she wouldn't want him to see, but there's no way in hell he's leaving. He's not leaving her like this.

He shifts. Plants a palm on the ground and preemptively stifles a groan. He'll pay for this tomorrow and it'll be worth it. He's about to push himself up, but he hesitates. Bends his head down and looks her in the eye.

"Are you ok?" he stops. Starts again. "Will you be ok for a second?"

Annoyance flashes across her face and he laughs. Kisses her on the forehead and laughs. "Of course you will."

He pushes himself up and heads for the hallway. Makes nonsense conversation to cover the noise as he rifles through his pockets. Creaks open the cabinets and grabs another couple of chipped mugs. He gives a ridiculously false cough to cover the squeak of the flask's screw top and she laughs. Not exactly steady, but real, and that covers the slosh of the bourbon into the mugs.

He trots back into the living room, sets the mugs down next to their long-cold coffees, and pulls her up. She stumbles a little bit. Stumbles against him, a palm on each shoulder and they're both breathless a moment.

He kisses her and it's nothing much. Chaste in the grand scheme of things. But it's the moment. It's all about the moment and he's burning. She opens her eyes and she is, too. He can see that she is. He steps back and brushes his thumb over her nose, because as much as he'd like it to be, it's not the time. It's not and this is enough for now. He'll take it.

He stoops and grabs both mugs. Presses one into her hand and clinks his own against it.

"To Elsa," he says with a flourish. "On hell of a dame."

"To Elsa," she repeats. She smiles wide and raises the mug. "One hell of a dame."

  



End file.
